have spread out in a big,
flat cluster across my lower abdomen and hips. The wounds are hard and white
with a tinge of reddish-silver at the edges. I cover
my mouth, staring in horror. One sore verges at the
leg line of my swimsuit. Maybe I got some weird bacteria from the cuts on my
hands and feet? I only have the scars now, but the memory of my time in the
hospital is so sharp, I can smell the disinfectant.
I sink to the edge of the wooden
seat in the stall, letting my head fall into my hands, feeling every bit of the
freak Ashly calls me.
12
I’M STUCK IN maths class again, and the vinegar and burnt
rubber stink of Mr. Lawry’s sweat permeates the hot air in the room. No, he
doesn’t bother to turn on the fans. Maybe the smell is in the paint by now, and
the cleaners will have to scrape the walls to get rid of the stench. The
whiteness of the exam pages hurts my eyes, and my brain thinks rather
sluggishly. Truly, my best subjects are music and art, but I haven’t been able
to sing because of my lungs, even though I used to jam all the time with Dad
when he was alive.
Lunch break is next, and my
stomach digs into my spine in a rumbling reminder.
I don’t look across the room to
Lakyn, though it’s hard to appear nonchalant. Another girl sits on the other
side of me, so he has to take a seat somewhere else. He is most appealing guy
I’ve ever seen in my life, and I am rather ordinary.
My hair isn’t just blonde, it’s
white. The kind that turns green if you mix it with chlorine. It makes me turn
green when I look at in the mirror of a morning. There is no colour to the
strands, so my curls add zero colour to my face. But
everything shows up on my pale skin, so I’m not surprised at its sensitivity.
There’s vivacity in colour. In white, I get nothing except glare and paleness.
Pale skin, hair
and grey eyes. Arctic whiteout, they call it. We came from Sydney,
Australia three months ago. Wynnum is Mum’s hometown, and she feels comfortable
here, but I am still settling in to the slow-moving atmosphere. At least, I was
until my accident.
Now, I don’t know if I’m safe in
my own mind. The danger of not knowing why I went over the cliff means it can
happen again. How do I stop myself and fight the fear when I don’t know what to
look out for?
I want to talk to my dad, ask him
questions and hug him. I am a little ticked off there is no physical sign I am
my father’s daughter. No dark hair or green eyes. My dad was an astronomer who
travelled the world going to conventions, and he taught at a prominent Sydney
university. That’s how my parents met. Dad needed a place to stay near the
university, and Mum just began her work as a real estate agent. She often says
they found their perfect place in each other. So cute and cheesy, but that’s
how they were together.
Sometimes, when I look up to the
stars with Dad’s telescope I wonder at the beauty of the night sky. If he is up there with more wisdom to tell me. I’d bring up
his memory, his brown hair, straight nose and white teeth. His laughter and
rapture with night sky. I miss him less when I peer through the telescope. I
see his smile again and hear his deep voice. What I wouldn’t give for him to
wrap me in his solid arms and then I could smell his comforting scent,
especially with everything falling apart in my life. When I’d have a rough day,
he’d sing for me on his guitar. I’d join in, smiling at his encouragement.
Tears squeeze out of my eyes and
splash on my exam pages. I swipe them away and sniffle.
The desk seems bare without my
pencil case and books, but the timer goes off, and I get to work until the bell
sounds.
At lunch time, Bethany pulls out The
Financial Times from her school bag as she has to do a report for her
economics class. She sucks on a blueberry lollipop and then flips through the
pages while I eat my meat pie with sauce. Best five bucks you can spend at the
cafeteria.
“Hey, where did you learn to swim
like
flat cluster across my lower abdomen and hips. The wounds are hard and white
with a tinge of reddish-silver at the edges. I cover
my mouth, staring in horror. One sore verges at the
leg line of my swimsuit. Maybe I got some weird bacteria from the cuts on my
hands and feet? I only have the scars now, but the memory of my time in the
hospital is so sharp, I can smell the disinfectant.
I sink to the edge of the wooden
seat in the stall, letting my head fall into my hands, feeling every bit of the
freak Ashly calls me.
12
I’M STUCK IN maths class again, and the vinegar and burnt
rubber stink of Mr. Lawry’s sweat permeates the hot air in the room. No, he
doesn’t bother to turn on the fans. Maybe the smell is in the paint by now, and
the cleaners will have to scrape the walls to get rid of the stench. The
whiteness of the exam pages hurts my eyes, and my brain thinks rather
sluggishly. Truly, my best subjects are music and art, but I haven’t been able
to sing because of my lungs, even though I used to jam all the time with Dad
when he was alive.
Lunch break is next, and my
stomach digs into my spine in a rumbling reminder.
I don’t look across the room to
Lakyn, though it’s hard to appear nonchalant. Another girl sits on the other
side of me, so he has to take a seat somewhere else. He is most appealing guy
I’ve ever seen in my life, and I am rather ordinary.
My hair isn’t just blonde, it’s
white. The kind that turns green if you mix it with chlorine. It makes me turn
green when I look at in the mirror of a morning. There is no colour to the
strands, so my curls add zero colour to my face. But
everything shows up on my pale skin, so I’m not surprised at its sensitivity.
There’s vivacity in colour. In white, I get nothing except glare and paleness.
Pale skin, hair
and grey eyes. Arctic whiteout, they call it. We came from Sydney,
Australia three months ago. Wynnum is Mum’s hometown, and she feels comfortable
here, but I am still settling in to the slow-moving atmosphere. At least, I was
until my accident.
Now, I don’t know if I’m safe in
my own mind. The danger of not knowing why I went over the cliff means it can
happen again. How do I stop myself and fight the fear when I don’t know what to
look out for?
I want to talk to my dad, ask him
questions and hug him. I am a little ticked off there is no physical sign I am
my father’s daughter. No dark hair or green eyes. My dad was an astronomer who
travelled the world going to conventions, and he taught at a prominent Sydney
university. That’s how my parents met. Dad needed a place to stay near the
university, and Mum just began her work as a real estate agent. She often says
they found their perfect place in each other. So cute and cheesy, but that’s
how they were together.
Sometimes, when I look up to the
stars with Dad’s telescope I wonder at the beauty of the night sky. If he is up there with more wisdom to tell me. I’d bring up
his memory, his brown hair, straight nose and white teeth. His laughter and
rapture with night sky. I miss him less when I peer through the telescope. I
see his smile again and hear his deep voice. What I wouldn’t give for him to
wrap me in his solid arms and then I could smell his comforting scent,
especially with everything falling apart in my life. When I’d have a rough day,
he’d sing for me on his guitar. I’d join in, smiling at his encouragement.
Tears squeeze out of my eyes and
splash on my exam pages. I swipe them away and sniffle.
The desk seems bare without my
pencil case and books, but the timer goes off, and I get to work until the bell
sounds.
At lunch time, Bethany pulls out The
Financial Times from her school bag as she has to do a report for her
economics class. She sucks on a blueberry lollipop and then flips through the
pages while I eat my meat pie with sauce. Best five bucks you can spend at the
cafeteria.
“Hey, where did you learn to swim
like
Similar Books
